I barely knew the man who died. Met him a half dozen times. We talked briefly at each occasion. He was always very pleasant to me.

I might be the only person here who didn’t know him well. Looks like half of South Carolina is trying to cram into this church to say goodbye.

His children and grandchildren are family to me and I love them very much. It’s weird to learn about a man through others… after he dies. That’s happened to me before.

Sadness comes in waves for those around me. My sadness is for them. I didn’t have the bond with him like they do. And I say “do” and not “did” for good reason.

Today’s journal is sponsored by the letters “d” and “o.” Here’s why:

I remember standing on my family’s front stoop in small-town Ohio when my oldest brother Dave told me that my dad died. I was 13. I felt nothing. It confused me because I knew I was supposed to be heartbroken. But I wasn’t.

I have since learned most everything I know about him through others. I’m told when he was sober he was a good man… funny and smart and likable, even kind. I only remember his drunken rages… and the crippling fear.

My dad’s demons were such that he tried to drink them under the table. Turns out demons, who have no souls also have no liver and, can drink with the best. After years and years of addiction my dad’s life on earth ended. He was only 48 years old. I’ll be 46 this month.

“Dad died,” my brother said matter of fact. I stood there a minute not knowing what to say or do… and then I just went about my day like nothing had happened. I told myself to act sad. I wanted to feel sad. But the truth is I felt relief. It’s sad to admit that.

Eight years later, across the country in Los Angeles, at 21, I came home from work one day, sat down on the edge of my bed and out of the clear blue started crying. And I couldn’t stop.

It was time to mourn what I lost. Grieving the loss of something you never had is a complicated thing. I wasn’t grieving the death of a man. I was grieving the fact that I never knew that man. Coming to grips with the fact that I never had a father. And I never would. Some of you know exactly what I mean.

I got up and went to work the next day. Came home and cried all night again. Part of me thought I was nuts. My housemate, Jack, would knock on my bedroom door and say, “You okay in there?” I was… or wasn’t. I didn’t actually know.

I only knew I had to forgive a man who, in my eyes, didn’t deserve it.

But in those two nights an important process began in me that continues to this day. And here’s the beauty of all of this: There is no pain so great that you can’t do something to heal it. See, there’s that word again… do.

I had no earthly reason to forgive my father. Come on! He was dead and buried eight years earlier! I know this will make me sound even crazier than I already do but death is not the end of your relationship with someone.

Take a minute to ponder that while I have someone loosen my straight jacket.

I’ll say this one last time: There is no “did.” Whatever has been done to you, you can undo.

As long as you’re still alive there is a chance for you to do the righteous, healthy thing.

Look, the only thing that’s worth a damn that we have to give others and ourselves in this life is love and forgiveness… and maybe a smidge of wisdom mixed in. It’s all we got. What else can we really give people? By comparison, all else is perishable.

I barely knew the man who died last Thursday in Spartanburg. But I’ll bet you somewhere in his life he learned the same truth I’m learning. And I’ll bet someone in this church, or reading this journal, is due for a couple tearful nights on the edge of the bed.

That’s the real circle of life. It’s what we do.

Okay, time for me to listen to the other voices in my head telling me to get back to work.

Be sane,

Mike Redding